


Come Hell or High Water

by honey_wheeler



Series: Falling Empires [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Incest, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:58:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8484952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: Jon starts with the best of intentions. Each night, he tells himself this will be his last. Each night, he swears his feet won’t tread the darkened path to Sansa’s room again. Each night, he savors her, making love to her until the calls of the night owls outside the window match her sweet, low cries, until they wake with the morning starlings and turn to each other again, Sansa’s tongue tasting the unspoken vow that lingers on his lips, the vow that this is the last time. 
Jon has had a hundred last nights, each sweeter than the one before, his desire only fueled by the desperation and urgency of his mistaken conviction that he’ll never have her again.





	

It’s become a habit of sorts, a ritual of failure.

Jon starts with the best of intentions. Each night, he tells himself this will be his last. Each night, he swears his feet won’t tread the darkened path to Sansa’s room again. Each night, he savors her, making love to her until the calls of the night owls outside the window match her sweet, low cries, until they wake with the morning starlings and turn to each other again, Sansa’s tongue tasting the unspoken vow that lingers on his lips, the vow that this is the last time. 

Jon has had a hundred last nights, each sweeter than the one before, his desire only fueled by the desperation and urgency of his mistaken conviction that he’ll never have her again.

She’s a weakness. A sickness. An addiction. Once his sister, now his cousin, always his lover, the ties of family mutating into something at once simple and intricate and wrong, so perfectly, beautifully, irresistibly wrong. Away from her, Jon is a good man, an _honorable_ man. A man wed to a Queen, a King Consort in his own right. Away from her, Jon renews his vow, over and over.

With her, he’s nothing more than a foolish drunk, intoxicated by the flavor of her mouth, the texture of her skin, the damp fragrance of her cunt.

He could sup on that cunt for a lifetime. He wants her at all hours, all days. When the sun streams bright through her window and she’s rich with color, crimson and peach and cream, and when the moon dapples her in silver and grey. When the rain pours and the snow threatens, when the cold makes her warmth twice as inviting and when the heat turns the air damp and makes their skin slide and stick. Each time he tells himself to leave, he thinks _I can't, not when she’s like this,_ and it all starts over again.

True, he’s managed small absences from her bed, but they only underscore his failure, mocking his resolve. The more firmly he resists going to her, the more egregiously he succumbs. The longest he’s ever lasted was nearly a fortnight, when Daenerys learned to her great shock that she was with child and Jon had thought everything would change. He’d thought _he_ would change. This was what he’d wanted, all through his youth, what he’d feared. What he never thought he could have. He’d been so sure this would sate him, that he could look at his wife, that he could sleep in her bed and kiss her lips and take her willing, demanding body, that he could know of their child within her, and he could be happy. It could be enough.

When he broke, Sansa had welcomed him to her bed with an urgency nearly matching his own and he’d lost his head, practically rutting himself on her again and again, a man reduced to mere animal, his once-sister a mate he was desperate to claim. He’d fucked her practically insensate that night, and he would have felt ashamed but for how she clung to him, how she begged, how even as she whimpered and shivered, nearly unable to move, she’d asked him for more. She’d wanted him still. He should have been ashamed, but he felt only fierce and proud, possessive. _Alive._

“Daenerys grows large,” Sansa says idly one night as she lounges in his arms in her bath, the water lapping the sides and spilling on to the stone floor whenever they move. It’s another vow Jon has broken; he comes to her chambers at all hours now, indulges himself in not only the lush promise of her body but also the sweetness of her company. “Soon you’ll be a father.”

The words seem foreign. Is he so far gone, that such a thing fails to move him? Has she bewitched him so much? 

“Do you know what I imagine sometimes?” she continues, her voice soft with wine and emotion. 

“What?” Jon prompts when she trails off, tangling her fingers idly with his, squeezing when he spreads his fingers and laces them firmly with hers. It’s another transgression, somehow, a gesture that seems even more intimate than being inside her.

“I imagine running away with you.” Her words are almost a whisper now. “Not forever, I know you couldn’t. Just…”

“Sansa…”

“We could travel the King’s Road,” she says in a rush, talking over whatever he might say. “Stop at the first inn we find. Pretend we’re wed, just for one night. You could kiss me and touch me in front of everyone. Not as you would a sister or a cousin. As you would a wife.”

It pierces his heart as keenly as the blades of his black brothers had. He tastes the salt at her nape, on her cheek, the salt of her tears on her lips when she twists her head to kiss him back. Suddenly he knows he’ll never quit her, whatever harm or ill it may bring them both someday. Whatever he does, he’s damned, and he’ll be damned with her if he’s damned at all. For tonight, at least, he’ll be saved.


End file.
